


Anything for Art

by melrosie



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: F/F, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 20:26:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17794181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melrosie/pseuds/melrosie
Summary: “... I want some personal reference here... authenticity...”You give a light laugh. “Unless you use it yourself, or try to draw from your own experiences… I don’t think you’ll find the reference you're looking for.”She’s quiet for a few seconds. “Would you... let me practice... on you?”





	Anything for Art

**Author's Note:**

> This is an example fic for the personalized fanfics I'm offering, which you can find info for on my tumblr @ LOUISEMILLER. 
> 
> I understand RPF and CHARACTER/CELEB X READER fic is not everyone's slice of pie. If it isn't yours, please don't bother reading this, or if you do, please refrain from commenting anything rude.
> 
> I need to demonstrate that I can write a variety of content so that people have the confidence to request fic from me.
> 
> Thank you, and I hope you enjoy.
> 
> PS. I cannot make assumptions about anyone's relationship, but the concept of an "open relationship" is implied. I will not portray cheating nor disrespect to any partner of any persons I may be interpreting in my RPF.

You’ve been watching them all rehearse for a few days now. You’re part of the set crew, rushing around backstage, making sure everything is in order and keeping up with the changes as they come. You’ve acted before in a few school productions, you did the audition for the theatre program at a school with a good reputation, but you couldn’t build up those tears during the emotional monologue because the judges put a pretty theatre student in your scene as “your mother’s grave” and that had thrown off your whole performance. 

But you didn’t give up completely on theatre, just picked a difference avenue to approach it by. You do stage work now, and to have landed a job for this particular National Theatre play is absolutely beyond you. You hadn’t even realized it was  _ Her _ play until you were present for the first script read-through with the cast and nearly choked on your ginger ale when you saw her. 

The director has been working on the set with the designers, and while you have hours where the actors aren’t around, their rehearsals are when things get exciting. 

You’ve been reminded rather starkly that privacy doesn’t exist backstage at a play. You only did plays in school, but it’s all the same,  actors and actresses alike running around in their underwear for quick costume changes. Everyone sees a little bit of everyone else’s everything— at least of the actors. 

It’s been a privilege seeing  _ Her _ fall into this role, utterly breathtaking and powerful enough to send chills up your spine. You try to focus on your work, but it truly is impossible to focus when her moans would reach your ears, or her laughter when they broke character (which makes your stomach dance each time your hear it). 

Costumes are presented, exchanged, altered, enhanced. Four dildos sit on the prop table, all black, each of a different size, some of different girth. They’d tried out each already for  _ That Scene,  _ and you’ve watched from a little spot out of sight. You’ve watched her put that harness on in that lace mesh teddy and that leather garter belt a few dozen times already but each time she seems to add a layer of nuance.

However one thing you notice, is her struggling with “authenticity during that final scene with the strap on. In her own words. With each dildo they’d acquired, she’d spent a little time with it during a rehearsal walking around the space, bouncing around with it— being silly, and being serious, just trying to get truly comfortable in it.

“You’d think after playing a man this would be easier.” You’d heard her say something like that, with a laugh. “But that was just a sock, and I never had to  _ weaponize it _ …” That had gotten a few chortles. 

The more time that goes by, the easier it to pretend you’re unphased by her presence. You don’t go beet red when she passes by, you can speak in full sentences if she asks you about a set piece, you don’t stare as long while the cast is rehearsing (you think)... of course you’d really really really like to try talking to her for real, have a conversation, express your appreciation for her work, how talented you think she is…

That opportunity comes in a different way that you could have expected, because in your own way you had gotten used to steeling yourself whenever you saw that familiar blonde hair in her your periphery. 

You bump into her while you’re reordering one of the prop tables, ticking off a mental checklist, and making sure each item is sitting properly within its coloured painters-tape rectangle to distinguish characters, as well as what it is sharpied on label over the tape. 

“Sorry about that—” you don’t look up, or if you do you only see a brunette beside you. 

“Have we decided which dildo we’re using yet?” That voice, that voice doesn’t belong to a brunette. You look up like a gun’s gone off, gaze locked with those lovely blue eyes of a woman who is so casually and effortless magnificent, even in the most unlikely of clothes. 

“Cate— hi, uh… No I don’t think so. They wanted to run the scene a couple more times, see which one… you like best.” You make a bit of a face, and she grins. There is a touch of exasperation behind the expression. 

“I guess it is up to me now. Katie approved all of them in terms of aesthetic and theme.” She finger combs her chocolate locks, and you watch them shine under the low lights, before meeting her gaze again. 

“I felt awkward wearing a harness for the first time.” Your admission makes your cheeks burn, and if her raised brow is any indication you’ve amused her. 

“I— I mean it gets easier with practice,” you try again. 

“Practice makes perfect?” Her smile is so wide it’s crinkling her eyes a little and you can’t help but smile back.

“Yes,” you agree. “Even with sex toys.” 

You spend the rest of the rehearsal in a fog of embarrassment, and though the time flies and everyone is making their way from the theatre space keen on getting a late meal, you never saw her leave. 

When she calls your name you’re surprised. One, because you didn’t know she knew your name, and two, that she’s still here. 

“I was thinking about what you said,” she explains, leaning against the table a few feet from where you’re working. “Could you tell me more?” 

You look at her for a long few seconds, trying to process what she’s requested of you. “About using a strap on?” The words come out much more smoothly than you thought they would. 

“Exactly.” 

“I’m not sure it’s quite the same,” you begin, feeling that heat creeping back into your cheeks. “I’ve only used it with women, so…” 

She holds up a hand. “The only equipment I care about is the dildo.” Her voice is a masterpiece that somehow manages to make even the crudest things appealing. 

“Of the ones I have,” you begin tentatively, voice lowered every so slightly— this advice is only for her after all… “each one has a unique weight— I do have a favourite… but— ultimately that weight and firmness also makes the use of it unique…” 

She nods as you speak, getting a thoughtful look on her face, like there’s an idea blossoming in her mind. She glances at you. 

“Anything else?” 

You shrug. “The other person’s reception and reaction does make a difference. But you’re not going that far— obviously.” 

“No,” she agrees. “But it should seems like I know what I’m doing. I’ve felt like I’m waddling around with a pool noodle between my legs and I haven’t a clue what to do with it.”

“Everything else about your performance is so provocative, and this scene is brief enough. I’m sure no one will notice.” 

“I will notice. It throws me off. Acting is a game of pretend, or reaching into experiences outside of yourself... but I want some personal reference here, authenticity...” 

You give a light laugh. “Unless you use it yourself, or try to draw from your own experiences… I don’t think you’ll find the reference you’re looking for.” 

She’s quiet for a few seconds. “Would you?”

You blink at her dumbly, not quite sure you’re understanding the question.

“Practice?” You ask.

“Let me practice on you.” Her gaze is impossibly penetrative, and you look back at her with a small surprised O between your lips. 

“You, want to practice… on me? Is that appr——”

“For art.” She smiles again.  

“Okay.” Your brain has gone a little mushy. “You’ll need to wash the… the—”

“I’ll take them back to my dressing room. Join me there in fifteen minutes?” 

All you can do is nod, and watch her take all four dildos and the harness into her arms and disappear from backstage toward the dressing rooms. 

You have never been more glad to have taken the time to personally groom, nor are you unappreciative of the pack of gum in your back pocket, and nor are you undervaluing the travel packet of intimate feminine wipes you keep in your purse. 

The dildos are sitting all in a row, drying on a towel when you get to her dressing room. She’s put the lace teddy on, and already has one dildo secured in the harness around her hips. You shut the door behind you, locking it as well and stepping into the space. 

This close up you can tell right away that there’s another reason she hasn’t been comfortable wearing the harness. 

“That isn’t on right.” you say softly, stepping closer. “May I?” 

She nods, and you place a hand low on her back and take the lower straps of the harness in your other hand and give a quick tug, and then you do the other side. You walk around her, tightening the straps so that they hug her waist and ass a little more tightly, which would bring hilt of the dildo closer to a more pleasurable spot. 

“There,” you say when you’re satisfied it’s on right. 

“Thank you.” 

She looks around the room, a true surveyor, and chooses a dresser. She points at it. 

“That’s the right height.” She looks back at you, and you step over to the dresser, letting her hook a finger through your trousers belt loop and give them a tug. “These will need to come off,” she takes the liberty of undoing the button for you. 

You slide your trousers and underwear off your hips, taking a moment to fold them and put them on a nearby chair. She’s gone over to the dildos sitting on the towel, and grabbed a tube of lube, likely among the many the prop department had procured. 

You stand beside the dresser, waiting. 

“Go ahead and sit on it— I want to see you while we do this.” 

So you do, already wet with anticipation while you position yourself, legs spread for her. 

When she turns, her gaze is immediately drawn low, and it is impossible to shift semi self consciousness in your grey t-shirt and nothing else, especially under her gaze. She comes over to you, placing a hand on your leg and guiding you to brace a heel against the surface of the dresser. 

“You should touch yourself first.” She takes your hand and squeezes a bead of lube onto your fingers. “You don’t look like you need it, but the lube is part of the scene.” 

You bring your hand down feeling the air against your cunt as you draw your fingers between your lips and gently draw them up toward your clit. It is slick and cool and the pressure is a slow ache for more deep in your belly. 

You want to tell her you’re already ready, but you don’t. You’ll do anything for her. For art.

After a moment, just as you’ve swallowed a slight moan at your own ministrated, she places a hand on your thigh, near your knee, pushing it back and parting your legs further. 

“You’re ready.” It is an observation. 

You nod. 

This dildo is one of the tamer ones, though its design is geometrically extreme. She lubes it up while you watch, her hand caressing the average length of it until it shines. You watch as she guides it against you, pressing it against you firmly, before rutting gently. 

You give a light groan, and are distracted by her small quirk of a smile which is when she takes the opportunity to push the dildo inside you. 

You take in a sharp breath and lean your head against the wall behind you. She pushes her hips as close as they’ll go to yours, bringing the toy as deep into you as it will go— and then she starts a pace. 

A slow and firm pace. 

“Keep touching yourself.” 

And so you do, but the two stimuli in combination with her hand holding your leg open with an unexpected strength is utterly arousing. If you had even a bullet vibrator with you this rhythm would surely have already begun to feel the beginnings of an orgasm creeping up on you. 

You only feel a hint of that possibility when she pulls out, and you let out a heavy breath, pausing your personal ministrations. 

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” she says and you begin again, circling your clit and feeling how wet you are in the absence of the toy. You watch her go over to the sink and exchange one dildo for another, this one shorter but more girthy. She lubes that one up as she walks back over. 

You trap the moan that slips from your throat behind tight lips, and gasp lightly when her pace comes a little more roughly this time— more in character. You continue to touch yourself, reeling in the added girth this toy has to offer— the new pressure and texture making up for its lack of depth. 

Your thigh quivers as the tightness returns, a coil in your belly tightening with each of her rough thrusts. 

“You can come,” she says, voice heavy and demanding, and you press your fingers a little more insistently against your clit. It only takes a few more thrusts for a little orgasm to leave you tense and quivering. She maintains her thrusts until you relax once again. 

“There are two more dildos.” Her tone is informational. “I think we’re getting closer to the right one.” You watch her switch out the dildos again, this one longer, designed with ridges and less girthy than the previous. You can feel yourself dripping at this point, and when you’re sure she’s looking again, preparing this next dildo for you, you stroke yourself and reunite your fingers with her clit as she returns. 

“I think I’ll have you bent over the couch afterward,” she says, her tone so casual. “With the ones I like best, since the man will be on his hands and knees.” 

“Sounds like a plan.” You have to agree. 

She pushes this dildo inside you, all the way in. 

“Fuck—” you cannot keep yourself from cursing, feeling the ridges and feeling its tip press against your cervix. 

“Too much?” She asks, drawing out halfway. You shake your head. 

“No, go on, rougher if you’d like.” 

And with that invitation, she leans against you, brunette hair getting in your face as she fucks you meanly, her short fingernails digging crescent moons into the skin of your thigh. You touch yourself still— sensitive now, and already twitching anew, but the moment you let slip one quiet whimper as the burn of another orgasm sneaks up on you she pulls away, catching her breath and watching you with a keen gaze. 

You definitely whimper at the loss of this dildo, utterly soaking wet and itching to come again. The last dildo is pitch black, realistic in design if not innacurate in size— it’s the longest, but not the girthiest, and you feel like you could come just thinking about the idea of it being inside you. 

“You may have too, go easy on me with that one.” 

“I think you can take it, but we can start slower,” she agrees, returning to you and squeezing more lube onto her hand to cover the dildo. 

She is kind this time, pushing it inside of you with a brutal slowness, and this time you feel it press against your cervix much more starkly than the previous one.

“How’s that?” She asks, and you smile. 

“Good—” but before you can answer she’s moving her hips against yours again, never fully pulling out before pushing the dildo back in as deep as you can take it. 

You gasp and wish you had something to grab onto, some purchase as she rams into you again and again and again. You get lost in the movements, little gasps leaving your lips and moans falling off your tongue. 

She leans in again, her breath warm against your temple, and you hear her groan with effort, and god you might just be even more thrilled at how good she smells with her hair falling into your face. You feel her lips against your hairline, kissing your forehead, before stopping deep inside you. 

“I think I’ll bend you over the couch now,” she murmurs. 

“Okay— would you help me off this dresser, please?” You laugh when she guides your legs over the edge of the dresser. 

“Put your hands on my shoulders,” she instructs, and you do. Her hands find your hips lifting you off the dresser and onto your feet. Your legs are absolutely jelly, a little numb down the left side. You manage to walk over to the couch, kneeling in front of it and over the cushion, pillowing your head under your arms and lifting your ass up for her to approach. Her hands finds your cheeks and palm them, guiding the dildo to your cunt anew, she eases her way in. 

This new angle is an entirely different experience, and you find yourself moaning into the couch cushion, feeling the leather of the harness kissing your ass with each rough thrust. You can hear her heavy breaths from the effort of her movements, and you realize as she’s thrusting that she’s reciting lines, slipping her tone between the personas of the Man and the Woman. 

She grips your hips more meanly, and you can feel the effort behind the thrusts she’s battering you with— pulling whimpers and strangled sounds from your throat. Her short nails would leave crescents in your skin and you don’t care, you don’t care at all because you are quivering, within an inch of coming and you can feel it like a ball of fire deep in your gut. 

She laughs then. “When have you ever banged into the bedroom wall?” 

She slams her hips into your ass, and you cry out, mouth pressed into the couch cushion, gripping so hard against it that the nail on your ring finger breaks— you give a slight yelp, but you have only enough cognizance to shift your grip and let out a loud moan as another deep thrust makes you see stars. 

You know the next line. You’ve heard it dozens of times. 

_ Because I am perfectly capable of making a sandwich. _

She is kneeling in front of you in a light bathrobe, sans the strap-on holding out a bottle of water to you. She’s washed her hands and tied her hair into a low ponytail.

“Are you alright?” She asks, and you could almost laugh at the genuine concern in her voice. 

You realize there are tears on your cheeks when she brushes one away with a clean thumb. You make a face, your finger stings, and so does your ass. 

“I caught my nail on the couch cushion,” you reply, taking the water from her and taking a gulp. You are very aware of your vagina, every intimate inch still vaguely throbbing, with a not entirely unexpected awareness of your cervix. 

She laughs, a very  _ her _ laugh and you grin back at her. 

“Let’s see.” She holds out her hand and you give it to her. “I’ll fix it.” She gets up, leaving you to some agonizing few seconds of alone time with yourself, just enough to worry about what your hair must look like. 

She returns, sitting on the couch next to where she’d fucked you, taking your hand anew. She carefully clips your nail. You’d done enough of a number on yourself, enough to pull it a little away from the quick. 

“I’ll let you get cleaned up and dressed, alright?” She says, pointing to the sink and the chair where you’d left your clothes. “I have a plaster in my bag, for your finger, when you’re done.” 

“Okay— thanks.” 

She leaves the dressing room with a bag in hand, and you get up and over to the sink. You make quick work of washing your hands and find that a clean washcloth wet with cold water feels incredible where you’ve just been utterly ravaged. 

You dress and fix your hair, and feel just about normal when you hear a light knock on the door. You open it, and there she is. 

She’s Cate again, in her street clothes, and dark rimmed glasses— whose unexpected chocolate brown hair looks lovely against the hue of her eyes. It’s impossible not to fall a little in love with her. You were before you offered to let her fuck you— for art.

“How’re we doing?” She asks, and you give her a thumbs up. She takes your hand, holding up a plaster which she carefully wraps around your finger tip and the broken nail. You won’t argue with her, but it isn’t that bad. 

She kisses your finger, and then your hand, giving it a squeeze with her own.

“Have you come to a decision?” You ask.

She nods. “Yes.”  

You step into the hall, and she locks the dressing room door with her own key. The two of you start back toward the theatre.

“I’m glad I could help.” 

“You were an exceptional reference, darling.” 

She hoists her bag onto her shoulder, buttoning her coat shut. 

“Have a good night,” you say, as you near the exit and she gives you a mirthful smile. 

“I hear epsom salt baths are particularly relaxing after a strenuous day at work,” she says, so casually it’s exasperbating, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. “And they’re good for bruises.” 

“Bruises?” You ask, raising a brow. 

She gives a hum of acknowledgement. “I’m sure you’ll find your backside quite sore later, best take care of that.” 

She waves and disappears out the door. 

You’re not sure you’ll take the advice.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the kind of fic I usually write, thank you for taking the time to read it. If you enjoyed it, I would certainly appreciate a comment. 
> 
> To send prompts or to request a personalized fanfic you can find me @ LOUISEMILLER on tumblr.


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